A Victim Of The Modern Age
by The Mouse Avenger
Summary: Frank Alexander claims that he & his wife were the unfortunate victims of a horrible tragedy. But perhaps there is more to the writer's story than we once imagined...Feedback much appreciated & encouraged, but no flames, please.


**A VICTIM OF THE MODERN AGE**

AUTHOR'S NOTES: "My wife...was very badly raped, you see. We were assaulted by a gang of vicious young hoodlums...I was left a helpless cripple, but for her, the agony was too great...The doctors told me it was pneumonia, but I knew what it was! A victim of the modern age! Poor, poor girl!"

After years of having become acquainted with an extensive list of antagonistic characters in all sorts of movies, books, & TV shows, I find Mr. Frank Alexander from "A Clockwork Orange" to be one of the most fascinating—& one of the most tragic—imaginary adversaries I've ever encountered. At the beginning of the film, Mr. Alexander is brutally beaten & then forced to watch his wife being raped; this traumatic event warps his soul & eventually renders him insane, as he believes that murdering his attacker Alex will not only topple the totalitarian government, but also serve as the perfect act of revenge for his wife's merciless violation & eventual death.

And yet, I thought to myself one day during the beginning of my "Clockwork Orange" craze, what if Mr. Alexander had collapsed into insanity earlier than Kubrick let on? What if a different fate had befallen the writer's wife than what Mr. Alexander revealed to us? This one-shot came out as a result of these musings, & I certainly hope you enjoy it.

All "Clockwork Orange" characters & properties belong to Anthony Burgess & Stanley Kubrick. I came up with the name for Mr. Alexander's wife.

* * *

The seemingly-swift segue of seasons from amber autumn to white winter had passed without much notice in my home. I remember very little from those three months—near the ending mark of last October's first fortnight to the cold evening of January 11th, 1995—except for the incessant pounding sound of my typewriter keys, the prolonged glances my eyes took at all finished papers while checking for errors, the feelings of lethargy & drowsiness I struggled to overcome after working until the small hours of the morning...my sweet Catherine's presence & how I greatly enjoyed her company during my lonely hours of tireless labor.

Whenever Catherine came to sit beside me & read what I had written so far, or whenever she gave me a "goodnight" kiss & wished me the best of luck with my project, or simply whenever she brought me the dinner she had taken the time to cook...those were the moments I remember with most fondness, the moments I am determined to keep safe in my memory until my dying day. For without those tender remembrances, I have nothing to live for; even my empty existence without Catherine is bearable as long as I let her presence linger in my heart.

She could have lived, though. She could have remained with me until the end of the final chapter in the book of our lives, when we would take the voyage to the pleasant utopia that would have awaited us after our peaceful passage into eternal sleep. We could have left this world _together_ when all was said & done...but alas, I must make the journey to heaven alone. Until the blessed day when Catherine & I will finally be reunited, I must linger in the ruins of my paradise lost, this empty house of broken dreams & painful memories that will haunt my soul until the day I leave this good earth & make my way to a brave new world of eternal happiness & sunshine—a world where Catherine & I will be able to live together forever in the state of wedded bliss we knew before.

The state of wedded bliss we knew...until the hellish events of that harsh winter's night of which I have spoken before...

I remember that night more than I do any other in my life. It began with the usual metallic melody of typing keys & the other sounds that had become associated with my ceaseless work. A great stack of my already-finished pages was at my side, ready to have the next one join them once I took it out of the typewriter. It was still quite a way from the end of my project, but every second I spent working on it would be worth all the effort by the time it was done. With the British monarchy completely removed from power & the new oppressive government marking their fifth year of tyrannical, totalitarian rule, the lives of innumerable, innocent people were at stake—on the very verge of being irreparably destroyed! No one dared to fight for the welfare of the British, the Irish, & everyone else among them...that is, until the Writers' Association For Individual Liberty (or simply WAIL) formed early last year & began trying to convince others to join the one noble cause they shared: the fight for freedom & free will for every individual. I was one of the first to join _la resistance_, & quickly became one of the most active members of the organization.

My devotion to WAIL & the things it supported was the very reason that I had begun writing my essay, which my fellow freedom-fighters hoped to publish & distribute once it was completed. "A Clockwork Orange" was what I had decided to title the thesis, in reference to the Cockney expression "as queer as a clockwork orange"—something that looked normal & natural on the outside, but was nothing but a mindless, will-sapped robot on the inside. Many convicts & other sorts of prisoners were becoming "clockwork oranges" themselves while undergoing a form of controversial conditioning treatment that was being used in most English prisons to "cure" their inmates of their evil ways.

The details of this treatment, commonly referred to as the Ludovico Technique, were not mentioned in the papers, but from what the investigative agents at WAIL told us, they were too horrible to even describe. Suffice to say, they said, that people were being robbed of their personal freedom, their humanity, & their right to choose whether or not they wanted to be good. And that was one of the numerous vices that the noble men & women at WAIL were determined to change; no one, not even criminals, should be forced to act a certain way just because that's what society wants for them to do. Even if the common people's views are in the best interest of others & they want their loved ones to be safe from vice & sin, they shouldn't force others to join their side; it is the criminal's choice, & his alone, whether he should reform or stay as he is.

That was the only thought I kept in my brain as I wrote my paper; this sole idea was the driving force in the moments of my long labor. It gave me the motivation, the very strength, to carry on with my work through each & every hour of those lengthy days. But on that fateful night when my life was forever changed, this idea would quickly leave the collapsing confines of my mind as I began my descent into insanity...

The tap-tap-tap of pounding keys, the aforementioned metallic melody, was the only sound that could be heard for most of the day. The quiet night that followed afterwards, however, was interrupted at one point by the chiming of the doorbell. Someone was here to see us, but for what reason, I wasn't quite sure.

When she had gone to answer the door & she'd seen who had arrived, Catherine was reluctant to let the visitors in at first; while guests were more than welcome in our house at any time, we didn't usually let anyone in at such late hours—well, I suppose I should have said that we didn't let anyone in the house if they were salespeople, con men, or those who seemed to be potential robbers. But due to the incredible rise in violent attacks these days, Catherine & I had been taking extra caution & made _absolutely_ _sure_ that any visitors who came to us bore no weapons & meant no harm.

The visitor at the door claimed that a friend of his was in the middle of the road by our house, terribly hurt. Feeling pity for the young fellow & taking notice of the desperation in his plead for help, I told Catherine it was all right to let him in. In making that decision, I'd hoped our guest would be able to call for an ambulance & ensure the well-being of his friend. It turned out, however, that Catherine & I had become the unfortunate victims of a horrible ruse.

Just after Catherine had opened the door, I could hear devilish giggling & anxious muttering echoing in the hallway. When I saw a gang of masked hoodlums entering the living room as they held Catherine captive, I quickly dashed to her aid, but before I could rescue her, I was tackled & pinned to the floor by one of the rogues. The moment I was immobilized, I heard a snapping in my lower back, & my legs & feet became completely numb. I struggled to get away, but much to my horror, I realized I couldn't move. When I heard Catherine's terrified screams, however, I knew I had to try—at the very least, _try!_—to save her from any harm. Even when my attempts to break free of my captor's grasp were fruitless, I nonetheless continued to struggle, hoping that I might be granted with the strength to fight those wretched villains & protect my darling wife.

The next few moments were a blur of excruciating pain & anguish, both physical & emotional. Catherine & I were slapped, beaten, & kicked mercilessly by our attackers while they toppled our furniture over & pilfered our valuables. The house quickly became a complete wreck, & just as soon as he had begun his bout of robbing & razing, the leader of the invading gang toppled my desk over! The papers of the essay I had worked tirelessly on for three grueling months were scattered as they drifted to the floor like autumn leaves from a tree, only to be crushed & crumpled by my typewriter...my desk & chair...my bookcases...everything in the entire study! Once all the damages to my library were repaired, I would have to gather all those bloody papers, put them in order, & write the whole blasted essay over again (if need be) before finally being able to finish it...

I immediately ceased my mental raving as I saw the gang leader strut over to Catherine, who was being restrained by one of the other hooligans. With a pair of scissors he had nabbed, the masked rogue began cutting off my wife's clothes until she was...oh, horror of horrors! Even though her hands were pinned behind her back, I could see Catherine kicking & struggling to break free from the delinquent's grasp, staring at me with panicked blue eyes as she emitted muffled cries for help. I fought even more vehemently to try to save my wife, but it was still no use. I could only lie on the floor in my captor's clutches, watching in sheer terror as Catherine—my dear, beloved Catherine!—was raped...

While Catherine was being so horribly violated by that heartless scoundrel's wanton touch, I could hear her stifled shrieks of fright & pain. I could see her face contort in agony when that monster forced himself into her. I could see fresh tears pouring from my wife's eyes with each excruciating second that passed during her rape. Catherine's suffering, her fear, her sorrow...they also became _mine _while I watched helplessly from my immobilized position on the floor. He was hurting _our _bodies, violating the sanctity of _our_ pure essences, tainting _our _bloodstreams with his foreign seed...

After what seemed to be a small eternity of hell & anguish, the scoundrel who had assaulted Catherine quickly plucked himself out of her, gave her a final slap in the face, put on his clothes, & ran out of the house with his three friends, only stopping for a moment to smash out the living room light. Now in the darkness my Catherine & I lay. I struggled with all the effort I had to crawl over to my dearest bride, & when I finally reached Catherine, I cradled her in my arms & stroked her hair tenderly as I slowly removed her gag & gave her comforting kisses.

Catherine looked at me with an expression of pain & sadness I had only seen on her pretty face for that one moment in time. "Frank," my wife whispered weakly, "he...hurt me." Then she collapsed in my arms, exhausted from the terrifying ordeal she had gone through. I didn't even try to hide my melancholic tears as I clasped Catherine firmly to my heart & buried my face in her hair. Before my beloved drifted off to uneasy rest, I looked at her with sorrow & regret in my eyes. "Darling," I said softly in a broken voice, "I'm...I'm sorry."

* * *

At least a month or two—yes, it was two—passed after that horrific _Incident_ before things started returning to normal again & Catherine & I could try to carry on with our lives as we did before. But life never _completely_ became the same again for me _or_ Catherine; the night of our assault brought many changes upon us, but my wife & I nonetheless did our best to adjust to them. I was easily able to rebuild my library & get back to work on my essay for WAIL (thankfully, I didn't have to rewrite too many of the pages I'd already done), & within a few more weeks, I was nearly finished with my paper!

The writing I did each day certainly provided an escape from the awful memories of the night Catherine & I were attacked, but there was one tragic reminder of that _Incident_ that even my work could not help me forget. Every day & night, wherever I went, I could no longer use my legs & feet to get around; the horrible snapping in my back that I'd heard all those months ago was the sound of my vertebra cracking in two. About an hour after the _Incident _had occurred, I'd gone to the doctor with Catherine to have him check our numerous injuries. By the time our medical examination was finished, the doctor told me that I was lucky enough to have even _survived_ the irreversible damage done to my spinal cord by those teenage rogues! I was _completely _paralyzed from the waist down...& so I would have to spend the rest of my life in a wheelchair.

Catherine, as much as she wished otherwise, was not strong enough to carry me up & down the stairs in our house, & she didn't want to go through the trouble of paying for the installation of wheelchair ramps. However, she still wanted to help her dear Frank in any way she could (oh, loyal Catherine, you've done so much for me!), so after some inquiring & searching about, she was finally able to find a "helper around the house" (quoting her words).

The man she had hired to work for us, who introduced himself as Julian (his first name alone will suffice), claimed to be a bodybuilder, but for what reasons, I didn't quite understand at the time of our first encounter. I would eventually find out more about Julian in the years to come, but in the meantime, I was content just to meet the man (he could be a pleasant & amicable sort, though he was usually reserved) & to welcome him into our home.

As it turned out, Julian was more than willing to help Catherine & me in every way possible; he would help us sweep the floors, set the table, clean up the rooms, dust the shelves, wash the windows, mow the lawn, tend to the garden, do the laundry...But Julian didn't just do housework & chores; I also assigned him to be my personal bodyguard. Julian did the job rather well, I must confess to you, & this is where his aforementioned hobby as a bodybuilder came in handy; every day, he'd spend over three hours doing extensive workouts, exercising heartily until he felt he was finished.

Julian always made sure that he was fit enough to carry a 143-pound-man in a wheelchair; even so, however, he would put _incredible_ effort into doing such a back-breaking, if noble, task for me. I feared that he would injure himself somehow from the labor. Luckily, Catherine would usually rush to Julian's aid & do her best to help him lift me up & down any stairs that needed climbing. Even though she was such a small thing & didn't have much muscle in her body, she tried nonetheless. Oh, how she tried...

Catherine...my sweet, sweet Catherine, if only I could truly thank you for all that you, my wife, have done for me in the years we've spent together! If I could just have you near me & we could talk about all the wonderful times we've shared during the course of our lives! If I only had the ability to control time, I would gladly go back & relive every single moment of our marriage. The moment I kneeled before you, engagement ring in hand, asking for your pretty little paw in marriage. The moment you strode down the aisle in your beautiful white dress, gazing upon me with shining blue eyes as you approached the wedding altar. The moment you kissed me & let me take you in my arms as I whispered words of love in your ear & began to undress you, gently touching your body as we prepared to consummate our marriage...

That young man—no, that cruel _monster_—had taken you, too, on the night of the _Incident_. But he did not ravish you in the way I had; his touches were unfeeling & cold. He had no love for you. He wanted to hurt you. And he did—in ways much worse than you or I once thought to be.

* * *

Perhaps about four more months passed after Julian came into mine & Catherine's lives—a half-year after that God-awful _Incident_. Things were continuing to look up for me & my wife (or so it seemed); I'd finally finished my essay & sent it to WAIL, who vowed to have it published within the next month or so. At last, my work was complete (for the interim, at least)! _At long last,_ I'd been able to make my contribution to the battle for the protection of the natural rights of criminals everywhere; my essay would only be a mere stepping stone in the road to success that the members of WAIL & I would travel until we reached the very end!

In those happy months following the _Incident_, life couldn't have been better for Catherine & me. Everything was wonderful—almost as wonderful as it was before that horrible night. But then, when we least expected it, things began to change again. And this time, they would only get _worse_ from here on out.

It began around summertime (if I remember correctly, the month of July); there was a terrible flu epidemic going around in many British & Irish cities, & many people were getting infected. Catherine appeared to have caught the virus, & she displayed many of the symptoms—fever, chills, aching muscles, drowsiness...She began to feel tired for much of the day, & many times, regardless of when or where, she often begged for me to let her lie down & rest. No matter how much Catherine slept, though, she never seemed to get better. Eventually, she wasn't able to help Julian carry me up & down the stairs—a troubling sign of the weakness her body had gained.

Catherine soon ended up lying in bed all day long; she could not move her legs or her feet, & her hands, feebly as she moved them now, shook & quivered like leaves on a tree branch. I would often stay for whole days at Catherine's bedside, hardly going anywhere else to do anything; I would sit beside her in my wheelchair, watching with sorrow & helplessness as my wife—my beloved Catherine—deteriorated right before my very eyes. Her long tresses of hair, once a beautiful shade of bright red, began to gray in many areas. Her blue eyes, once so full of life, began to dull until the vivacious spark within them disappeared. Her skin continued to pale until her body was a ghostly shade of white. Her eyes became sunken & hollow. My wife was becoming sicker & sicker with each passing hour, & I had no idea how I could possibly help Catherine, hard as I tried to think of _some_ way to heal her.

On one hot summer night, after over a day's work of endless chores (which he ended up doing almost all day, every day, now that Catherine & I were not able to get up & work around the house anymore), Julian had come upstairs to our room to serve us dinner. I attempted to eat my food in solemn silence, but Catherine could not even grab her spoon & try to take a bite—even though Julian was kind enough to prepare her favorite meal for her.

"Catherine, love, please eat," I urged, offering my sweetheart her piping-hot bowl of vegetable soup. She did not take it. "You need the energy," I said, taking a spoon full of broth & moving it into her mouth. She barely opened it wide enough for me to pass the spoon through her lips, & when she ate the sample she'd been given, it burned her tongue. I had to support Catherine's head while she tried desperately to cool the inside of her burning mouth with sips from her glass of water.

When the pain had been relieved, Catherine lay back down on the bed, her silver-streaked hair spreading around her head like the dimming halo of a dying angel—_my _dying angel. She stared up at me with those deep eyes of her that flowed with tears. "Frank," Catherine told me in a voice that broke with each word she spoke, "I've never been sick like this before. Something must be wrong with me..."

"It's nothing the doctor can't fix, I'm sure," I whispered tenderly to Catherine, trying to assure her that things would be all right. "Now, please, darling, try to get some sleep. I'll call Dr. Anderson first thing in the morning." With that, Catherine curled up on the bed, closing her eyes as she settled into slumber; the thoughts of our village doctor coming to her rescue seemed to calm her down.

As I watched my wife sleep, my eyes began to fill with tears, as well; I was overwhelmed with sympathy & concern for Catherine, so much that I couldn't effectively put it into words. My pet, so weak & defenseless, rested upon our bed, languishing with every moment that passed, & who knew how long it would be before there was nothing left of the woman who put happiness & sunshine in my life?

I could hardly keep from crying as I crawled into bed beside Catherine & lay with her in the darkness of our room, stroking her hair & her face tenderly as I planted loving kisses upon her flesh. It was almost like our wedding night; Catherine & I were together in our bed, safe from the troubles of the world. We only needed each other. And we were more than happy to spend the few precious moments between us in blissful company. But I feared that these moments would indeed be few & precious; I couldn't shake off the sinking feeling lingering in the back of my mind that Catherine might not survive her illness. I tried to ignore those thoughts, however, as I cradled Catherine in my arms & threaded my fingers through her locks of hair, kissing her face & lips as I promised to stay with her all through the night. I was not going to leave my wife, even for a second; I slept with her until the sun rose the next morning.

* * *

As soon as I had woken up, I summoned Julian & asked him to carry me downstairs to my library so I could call the local physician, Dr. Anderson. He came to the house in less than an hour; Julian showed him the way upstairs. I lingered for the next several minutes in the living room, wringing my hands nervously as I waited for Dr. Anderson to come down & tell me whatever news he had. Finally, after about a half-hour, he appeared in the living room with me, sporting a solemn expression.

Noting the concern on his face, I wheeled over to Dr. Anderson. "What's wrong?" I asked him. "Is Catherine all right?"

Dr. Anderson shook his head, looking quite sad. "I'm afraid not, Frank," he replied gravely. "Your wife is terribly ill."

"Ill?" I echoed, breathing heavily as the pace of my heart quickened & my mind was filled with worry. "With what?"

Dr. Anderson paused for a few moments; he appeared to be thinking to himself, almost as if he were wondering how he was going to respond to me. Then he made his answer: "A very terrible case of pneumonia. That is all." With that, Dr. Anderson took up his black bag & began to head towards the door. I was absolutely shocked—no, infuriated—by Anderson's cowardly decision to walk away from my wife when she was in dire need of medical attention! He was going to leave without even _attempting_ to help Catherine get better?

I quickly wheeled to the foot of the stairs, trying to catch up with Dr. Anderson (even though I knew it would prove to be in vain). "Why won't you bother to help my wife?" I shouted angrily, overcome with fury at Anderson's refusal to aid Catherine. "Why won't you stay & take care of Catherine, like you're _supposed_ to do? It's nothing you can't fix, right? _Right?!_"

Dr. Anderson only turned to look at me for a second. He shook uncontrollably, & his eyes widened with great anxiety while sweat began to pour down his body & he could barely keep from dropping his black bag. "It's a _terminal_ case of pneumonia," he stammered to me, before making his way out. "There's nothing I can do for Catherine." Then Dr. Anderson walked out the door & shut it behind him, more than likely never to return.

My every nerve blazed with anger. I _knew_. I _knew _that Dr. Anderson was lying to me; his reactions to my words & the nervous movements of his body clearly gave away the fact that he was hiding something from me. And I was determined to find out what it was.

Without uttering a word, Julian carried me upstairs to my bedroom, where Catherine lay awake on the bed. My wife was becoming even weaker now; when I saw her that moment, she was almost a skeleton, barely covered with tissue & flesh. Her once-beautiful blue eyes were becoming more sunken in their sockets; when Catherine looked up at me, it was as though I was staring into the face of a skull. "Frank," she whispered hoarsely, "the doctor came to see me." Catherine began to cough violently for a few seconds, hacking out small traces of blood & phlegm into her shriveled white hand. Then she looked at me again with sadness & fear in her eyes. "He says I have pneumonia...But how can I have pneumonia if I'm coughing?" She struggled again to clear her throat, wheezing with effort as she did so.

"He must have made a mistake," I told Catherine, barely disguising the anger in my voice. I gently grabbed her wrist & brought her hand closer towards me, so I could see the fluids on her palm. It was difficult to make out at first, but then I realized that the blood was a _very dark _shade of crimson; I also noticed that the number of white cells that I could see in the sample of blood was very, _very _low—almost a _quarter_ of the normal amount of white cells in a woman's body. It was no wonder Catherine was becoming weaker by the day & not getting any better—her white cells were disappearing rapidly, & her immune system was losing its ability to ward off the disease that plagued her!

That idea was horrifying in itself, but it only became more so when I was struck with an awful realization—there was a particular form of venereal disease (of which I had some knowledge) that shared many of the same symptoms as the flu or pneumonia. Anyone who was infected with the virus could pass it on to another person, but nothing could be done to help anyone who suffered from the illness. It was untreatable. It was incurable. It was fatal—in less than a number of months, those who had this dreaded disease would suffer excruciating agony as their bodies degenerated & weakened more & more each day...until they finally...

No! No, it wasn't true! My Catherine didn't have this horrible illness! God wouldn't have done such a thing to my beloved bride! Catherine was too kind, too sweet & wonderful, to be tainted with this disease; God would never make her suffer by forcing her body to decay while she lay in bed, with nothing to look forward to in her future but a gruesome death. God wouldn't do this to me! He wouldn't hurt my Catherine! He knew how much she meant to me; he wouldn't take her away from me...He _wouldn't_...

"Frank," my darling wife whispered to me so softly, "I'm dying, aren't I?" It was not a question, but more of a statement, which she delivered in a matter-of-fact tone.

My eyes flooded with tears, but I shook my head, trying desperately to cling to false hope. "No, my dear," I whispered back in assurance as I leaned forward to stroke her hair, "you're not dying."

Catherine, however, was already coming to terms with the reality of her impending doom. "Then why can't I move?" she asked me bitterly. "Why can't I walk around? Why can't I perform even the simplest of functions?"

I had no possible way to answer that—nor did I want to. Not saying another word to Catherine, I quickly wheeled out into the second-story hallway, hoping I wouldn't be seen as I broke down & burst into uncontrollable sobs.

Along the length of the corridor, there were large mirrors that were fixed upon their walls & the ceiling above them, reflecting the images of people who passed in front of them. As I wept aloud, crying out in anguish for the unfortunate fate my sweet Catherine would have to endure, I stared into these mirrors. They reflected the face of a wizened old man with graying hair & lines in his face, a face that contorted with distress & was streaked with the tears that flowed from his eyes like a torrent of sorrowful raindrops.

Soon, though, the face of the grieving husband (soon-to-be widower?) transformed into the face of a madman. I blindly gazed without watching as the countenance in the mirrors became flushed with fury, as the torrent of tears that poured from his eyes became hot & stormy. The veins in the figure's neck & the rest of his body tensed, pulsing madly with the blood that rushed through them; his hands & his face shook violently, & his eyes became bloodshot, blazing with fury as they took on the appearance of the eyes of a monster—of someone who was gradually losing his sanity &, therefore, perhaps, his humanity.

"_You will pay,_" I growled in rage, gritting my teeth like a livid dog as I spoke these words to the young man who attacked Catherine, & yet to no one in particular. "You will _pay_ for what you did to my wife, you vicious, cruel bastard! You will pay for what you did to _me!_" Two arms with veiny wrists & feeble, quivering hands were raised up in the air in a single, swift movement, extending out towards the heavens in a majestic gesture of grand triumph as their owner was inflicted with a sudden burst of insight—insight that would enable him to have his revenge on the delinquent who had ruined his life forever.

Yes—that was exactly what he sought. Sweet, black revenge. "_Yes! __You,__ my attacker, shall atone for your sins! You will __PAY!!_" The monster reflected in the mirrors began to laugh...From his lips burst a wicked, demented cackle, a high-pitched giggle of evil glee that no mere mortal would ever hope to hear outside of his darkest nightmares.

The walls of the monster's sanity—_my _sanity—began crumbling down that very moment. That assailant from long ago would not be forced to be good, I insisted, & he would act as he chose...but his misdeeds would _not_ go unpunished. He would _suffer_ the consequences of his actions. He would _pay_—I say to you again—for his crimes. Catherine's suffering would be avenged, & I, her husband, would see to that...or rather, the insane monster who quickly began to take over what was left of the damaged remains of my troubled mind. I was in the creature's power now. I had no choice but to do his bidding. I had to take the shattered ruins of my life & do my best to repair them in any way I could, even though there was not much hope of ever living "normally" again.

And the monster that I'd become knew _just_ how to make things right...for everybody...

* * *

Several minutes later, I summoned Julian, asking him to take me down the stairs to the first floor. He was glad to oblige, & once he had set me down on the ground, I wheeled over to my study, rooting around in the bookcases of my library for something—anything—that could help me in my quest to seek revenge for Catherine & mend the broken pieces of my devastated existence.

"Frank?" I heard Julian ask as he stood behind me. No doubt, he was watching me rummage through all my books. "Is something troubling you?"

"_No!_" I blurted out frantically, unable to control the volume or pitch of my voice. "Everything's fine, Julian. Don't worry." After my first search turned out to be in vain, I wheeled over to another one of my bookcases; this was where I kept all my medical & botanical volumes. I muttered to myself, rambling like a madman, while I browsed around for the one book I needed. Then a cry of enlightenment! "I've found it!" I exclaimed with a shining face, taking out the book I had located & wheeling over to my desk. I quickly opened the book & began flipping through the pages within, smiling crazily while I leafed through the "A" section of my encyclopedia of poisons & toxic materials.

"Why are you reading about poisons?" Julian asked me, noticing the contents of the book I was looking at.

I turned to face him with a grin of insidious delight. "You'll see, Julian, you'll see..." Nothing in the "A" section. Nothing in the "B" section. But at the very end of the "C" section, I'd found just the thing I would need to begin my quest for unholy (or perhaps it was the opposite?) revenge. Holding the book open, I brought it towards Julian & pointed to the article I'd discovered.

When Julian took a closer look at the article, his face paled & he grew quite nervous. "C-c-cyanide?" he stammered, adjusting his black glasses on his nose while he glanced at the article again to register what he had just read. "Why would you need that, Frank?"

My voice was solemn, but my expression was tinged with a smirk of demented mischief, as I answered my loyal servant: "Julian, my friend...I think we're going to need an extra ingredient for Catherine's food at dinner tonight..."

Julian instantly knew what I was talking about. "No," he uttered while shaking his head in refusal. "Frank, I'm not going to kill your wife."

I immediately leaned forward, grabbing Julian by his shirtfront & pulling him in closer towards me until our faces were less than a few inches apart. I stared at Julian with such rage in my eyes that if looks could kill, he would have been dead at my feet. "_You're _not going to kill her," I hissed. "_I'm _going to kill her. _You _will supply the necessary tools."

"You're absolutely crazy, Frank!" Julian cried, breaking away from me & raising his arms in the air. "This is so _wrong_...on...on so many levels! Why should I help you do such an awful thing to your wife?"

"Because Catherine is suffering a terminal illness, undoubtedly brought upon her by that evil scoundrel we told you about," I answered with passionate rage, barely able to keep my voice steady. "He poisoned her with his tainted seed, & now she has to live the rest of her days, few as they are, in agony for what she went through; she has nothing to look forward to in her doomed existence but pain & an untimely death! I don't want my Catherine to suffer...I truly feel that someone should put an end to her misery..."

After some moments of consideration, Julian sighed passively & looked down at me with those somber brown eyes of his. "All right," he said. "Where's the closest place where I can get cyanide?"

* * *

Surprisingly, Julian was able to fetch the cyanide at the local black market without much trouble; all he had to do was show up in (an ingenious) disguise, sign his name (or, rather, alias) on the dotted line, & pay the vendor, before taking the lethal chemical home. I was trembling madly with joy when Julian came home that afternoon, having successfully retrieved the item that I so desperately needed. "Julian, my clever friend, my faithful friend," I whispered reverently as I wheeled over to him to take the bottle of cyanide from his hands, "I wish to thank you. You've done me a great service."

I turned away from Julian, hunching over in my wheelchair as I stared with shining eyes & a fond smile at the cyanide that I cradled in my hands like a drunken beggar's prized flask of gin. "Oh, mortal drug I have in my possession now," I spoke in a hushed tone, "you couldn't have been given to me at a better time. Come, come, my little comrade," I addressed to it as though it were a living thing, "now we shall employ your deadly skills to good use..." And so, I wheeled off to the kitchen, with Julian following me close behind; no sooner did we enter than we began preparing a late lunch for Catherine, making sure to administer small doses of the cyanide in every dish that would be put upon her dinner tray...

* * *

"Catherine, darling," I called out to my wife in a merry sing-song voice as I wheeled my way into our bedroom, "your lunch is ready..." Catherine smiled at me as she turned over in bed to face me; despite the pain & agony she felt inside, she tried to act as though nothing were wrong with her. (That was my Catherine—always looking for sunshine, even when the darkest of storm clouds gathered over her!) "How wonderful of you, Frank," she whispered to me, her once-melodious voice now hollow & rasping. She gently extended an arm, beckoning with her hand for me to come closer so I could feed her.

"Oh, & you made me all my favorite things!" Catherine exclaimed cheerfully, still speaking in a hushed tone, when she saw the food I had prepared for her. For a moment, I thought I could see a faint trace of the lively spark that once filled my wife's blue eyes. Gathering all the strength left in her body, Catherine was miraculously able to grab her silverware & take bites of her food, which she greatly enjoyed as the taste of the treats filled her mouth. "You're so good to me, Frank," she complimented me. "I wish all the other wives in the world could have a husband as selfless & thoughtful as you..."

Though I was flattered to hear these words at first, I soon became twinged with guilt & regret for the decision I had made earlier. It appeared that Catherine was slowly making a return to the life that she would lose all-too-soon, & a thought struck me—when Catherine left this world, what would she think of me when she learned from some heavenly little bird that her darling husband was responsible for her own death? The very notion of her likely reaction was much too awful for me to even imagine.

When Catherine suddenly spat out her food & complained of a burning sensation in her mouth, I started to tell her not to eat anymore, but my warning was of no good to her now. Soon, Catherine began heaving up the lunch she had just eaten, coughing up vomit & blood; then, she started convulsing & shaking about wildly. Finally, her sunken eyes rolled back in her head, & she collapsed in the bed, not moving a muscle.

My body began to sweat, & my heart raced wildly as I wheeled over to Catherine, cradling her in my arms as I held her close to my person & kissed her passionately. "Catherine," I cried out with tears in my eyes, "my darling wife!" Downstairs, I could hear Julian dialing on the telephone & calling for an ambulance, but by then, of course, it was too late; the cyanide had already taken effect.

Overcome with grief, I continued to kiss & embrace Catherine while I buried my face in her hair & wept like a helpless child; it was not the deceitful display of a murderous madman, but a true demonstration of the mixture of heartfelt emotions that flooded my mind & soul as I held my dead wife in my arms, unable to revive her with my kisses & my loving touch as I could when she was alive & asleep next to me...Now Catherine would never awaken from her slumber...& I was to blame for her premature passage into eternal rest. The monster who rendered me insane had taken complete control of my brain, & in doing so, he caused me to kill the one person that meant more to me than anything else in the world...the one person I would never have killed, under _any_ circumstances, were I as sane as any other man.

My Catherine...my angel who now resides in heaven with the poets & the authors of yore...please do not be angry at me. I swear to God, it was not my intention to murder you. I loved you with all my heart! I thought you were in pain, & I only wanted to end your suffering. Surely, you can understand that. And if you cannot understand, then please have mercy upon your grieving widower & find it in your heart to forgive him for what he did to you. After all, my dear, isn't forgiveness what angels are required to show to those who seek it?

* * *

The ambulance soon came, & Catherine was quickly rushed off to the nearby hospital. Julian & I followed her, but when we made it to the hospital & tried to follow Catherine as she was wheeled away by nurses into a particular ward, we were stopped by a lady doctor in scrubs who was guarding the entrance. "You can't go any further," she warned us, "unless you have permission to enter."

"What are you talking about?!" I fumed angrily, trying not to act in a manner that might be deemed as suspicious. "I have a right to go in that ward! My wife is in there, & I wish to see her before she's taken to the emergency room!"

"She's not going into the emergency room," the lady doctor told me. "She's going to the morgue; the men who picked her up announced her dead on arrival."

The inner sorrow I had suppressed on the way to the hospital quickly returned, & tears spilled from my eyes once again as my face distorted in distress. "Catherine...is _dead?_" I asked, before collapsing into hysterical sobs. The lady doctor tried to calm me down, leading me over to a bench in the waiting room so I could sit down.

"Sir, they're investigating her death right now via autopsy," the doctor told me. "They'll give you a report as soon as they're done." This fact did not solace me—what if they found out about my role in Catherine's murder? I spent the next hour or so grieving for the loss of my wife & the horrible crime I'd committed, with Julian doing his best to comfort me (but alas, it was all in vain!), until finally, the medical examiner came with his autopsy report.

"Your wife," he told me solemnly, "has been infected with AIDS for approximately 6 months, but that is not the cause of her death. She recently ingested a moderate amount of cyanide, which ended up killing her. Traces of the poison were found in her stomach contents; the cyanide was probably laced in her food while she was eating lunch...Do you know anything about this?"

"No," I immediately replied, shaking my head to confirm my words. "Not at all."

"Yes, well, be that as it may," the coroner continued, "I found during the autopsy that the lethal effects of the cyanide affected not one, but _two_, people."

I was thunderstruck—absolutely stunned—when I heard the doctor reveal this to me. "_Two _people?" I echoed hesitantly, my eyes widening in shock. "But...but _how?_" I couldn't believe my ears! Did the medical examiner _actually_ mean that? Or could he have made some kind of mistake? Either way, his words were almost—if not completely—impossible for me to accept as the truth. "How can that be?"

The coroner stared at me with a saddened, sympathetic gaze, appearing to feel quite sorry for me in light of what he was about to say next. "Your wife, Mr. Alexander," he replied regretfully, "was expecting a child. At the time she died, she had just begun her third trimester; had she lived, you would have had a baby boy in another three months, though the question of whether or not it would be infected with your wife's AIDS virus is another matter entirely. I inspected the fetus that I found while I was—"

My heart immediately began sinking in my chest, & a plethora of emotions swept over me as I wrathfully lunged for the coroner & made a vain reach for his shirtfront, even though Julian was trying to hold me back in a gesture of restraint. "My wife was _pregnant?!_" I screeched, my voice breaking with melancholy tears as its angry tone began to disappear & segue into one of complete woe. "Oh, God..." I felt as though my heart would break into pieces; in my state of inconsolable grief, I feared that I, too, would die & be joining my Catherine in heaven—but alas, I did not. I only collapsed against Julian, sobbing into his clothes & clutching at the lapels of his shirt as he held me in his arms, rocking me back & forth like a distraught, wailing child.

Despite my man-servant's attempts to comfort me, I looked up at him & stared at his innocent, compassionate face with rage-filled eyes. "_You!_" I snarled, quickly gripping my hands around Julian's neck & throttling him in a fit of wild anger. "You lying bastard, why didn't you tell me my Catherine was pregnant?"

Julian struggled to speak, his voice croaking as his throat was squeezed by the force of my hands. "I didn't tell you because..."—he gulped for air—"...I felt it was best that you didn't know!" With that, I released Julian, & I listened to the rest of his words with reluctance, but also a complex desire to learn more. "Catherine was sick & dying, & it was hurting you enough just to sit at her bedside all day & watch her slip away from life right in of you. I thought that telling you about the baby would only make things worse for the both of you..."

I raised a hand, feeling the urge to slap Julian for his foolish decision to remain silent, but I quickly composed myself & lowered my hand at my side, sinking down into my wheelchair. However, I continued to seethe with anger, glaring daggers at Julian as I grew silent & refused to say another word. Julian, however, wasn't quite finished talking: "What good would it have done to tell you, anyway? The baby was probably infected with Catherine's virus, like the coroner said; it wouldn't have been able to live for much longer."

I didn't care about Julian's "reasoning" for his refusal to tell me & Catherine about the baby. As an Irishman, I was brought up under the Catholic faith; my religion stated that it was a horrible sin to kill a baby while it was still in the womb. To commit abortion was considered murder in God's eyes, & only now did I realize that _two_ innocent people had been killed at my hands—my beloved Catherine & her unborn child. Their precious blood was spilled upon the ground, & I alone was to blame for their deaths. I would forever be forced to live with the guilt of my crimes; I would be forced to live without Catherine for the rest of my lonely days. And without Catherine, I was alone. I had no one with whom to abide, no one to comfort me when I was distressed, no one to kiss me "goodnight" & sleep in my arms, no one to whisper in my ear about how much I meant to her...& there was nothing I could do to change that. Nothing.

* * *

I never did recover from the _Incidents_ that destroyed my life. During the 18 months that followed after Catherine & her son (I gave the child my name) were buried, I was left alone with Julian to grieve for my permanent losses. I continued to stay at _Home_, writing essays for WAIL & aiding them in the struggle for the protection of criminals' liberties. As I worked at my writing, however, I was attacked with pangs of guilt & remorse that struck my heart with each word I typed. My writing no longer offered an escape from the awful memories of everything that had happened to me; they only served as a _reminder_ of what I had done to Catherine & the child she was carrying.

Why, you ask? Well, I shall confess to you (but please, don't tell a living soul about what I'm going to say)—by murdering Catherine, I'd hoped that I would be able to put the blame for her poisoning on the young man who had raped her all those months ago, & in turn, that rogue would be arrested, tried for his role in Catherine's death, imprisoned, & punished appropriately for the sins he had committed against me & my dear wife. But, in retrospect, my plan would have backfired, as the young man was wearing a mask, & I couldn't see his face. However, I _never_ forgot the song that man sang while he trashed my house, beat me up, & raped Catherine—it was a song from an old movie, strangely enough..."_Singin' In The Rain_".

Perhaps you may recall certain events that happened one cold January night, 2 years after my life was forever changed for the worse, when Julian found a young man slumped over on my doorstep, bruised & bloodied from a very nasty beating he had taken from the police. At first, he appeared to be an innocent ex-criminal who was attacked by the constables in a brutal act of punishment for his sins, but then I realized that this same young man had just been released from jail & that he was the boy that they were talking about in all the papers & TV news programs. He was the boy who'd been forced to undergo the dreaded Ludovico Technique & had been brainwashed of his free will...but I thought to myself that he would turn out to be a perfect spokesman for WAIL, a potential crusader for our cause!

It would have turned out that way, had the hands of fate been a little more merciful to me. I won't be a bore to you & ramble on endlessly, but I will say that my original plans were doomed from the moment when my visitor did a little performance of "_Singin' In The Rain_"—sole evidence that he was the same man who had invaded my home & assaulted Catherine. Suffice to say that I finally decided to have my long-awaited revenge & I drove that little bastard to suicide to make him pay for his crimes after all these years...But that's another story for later.

Oh, that man survived, as you all know. He ended up in the hospital with every bone in his body broken, but he made it through his ordeal! And while he was resting on a cushy little bed & being given the royal treatment by the staff, I was arrested for attempting the murder of my attacker & sentenced to be in prison for 20 years—when I thought that I was doing the world a great favor by teaching that hideous delinquent a lesson he should have learned a long time ago!

Well, I've been doing my best to survive in Elstree Prison, & so far, I've made progress. Only 5 more years in my sentence to go. Though I fear that I may not be able to see my first day of freedom, for at the time I relate this tale to you, I am 88 years old, & with each day I spend in my lonely jail cell, my biological clock is slowly ticking, little by little...

If I _do_ live to see my release date, however, I will not be returning to my old _Home_; there is nothing left for me there but abandoned relics & painful memories of the life I used to have. I think, when I get out of here, that I will move to a smaller house in the country, a few miles away from the graveyard where Catherine & my unborn son lie buried. I plan to spend the remainder of my days in lonely isolation, with only my books to comfort me, until I quietly pass away & join my sweet Catherine & little Frank Jr. in heaven, where we will be together for all eternity, with no crime or vice to threaten our idyllic afterlives.

Oh, Catherine, my Catherine...your fearful trip is done at last. It won't be long, my love, before we're together again. Tell me, my dear, have you forgiven me yet for what I did to you? I pray you have, for you are indeed a merciful sort that could never find it in her heart to deny anyone forgiveness—even her own husband. But you were not the only innocent who suffered in these dark & troubling times; _I, _too, was a victim of the modern age...like you. How could either of us know, my angel, of the troubles that would befall us when we let a criminal into our home? How could _anyone _know?


End file.
